


The Irish Connection - London Calling

by ThePash



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-10 14:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6989308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePash/pseuds/ThePash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hi everyone. I'm sorry this took so long but I'm ready to continue in our saga of Mycroft and Aoife, Sherlock and Molly, and of course, Michael Reilly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Irish Connection – London Calling - Chapter 1

Aoife Quinn smiled happily to herself as she approached the beautiful three- story house in Mayfair where she lived with Mycroft Holmes, the love of her life, the man she'd first met only a few short months ago, when in her role as consultant for the Irish Department of Justice and Law Reform, she'd formally approached Whitehall for assistance to find Jim Moriarty, the psychopath who'd murdered her twin brother so long ago.

Their meeting that day and the sequence of events that had brought them together in her manor house in Wicklow, Ireland, had made her life change course dramatically. His brother, the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes, had taken her word that 'Jim Moriarty' was not dead, and more importantly, had taken her case. Together, the two Holmes brothers had helped resolve her fifteen- year quest to prove her brother's murder.

The whirlwind romance that had followed between herself and Mycroft and the mammoth changes in her life since then, had made her the happiest she could ever remember being. Besides her parents and a few close friends, particularly Michael Reilly, an Irish DI who was like a brother to her, she had felt quite alone for most of her life, so to have found such happiness so rapidly with this extraordinarily gifted Englishman was as unexpected as it was welcome.

Mycroft Holmes had supported her, challenged her and stimulated her from their first meeting, so it was an easy decision to relocate to London. Her company and family owned businesses and properties in London anyway, pride of place being the five star Connacht Hotel in Covent Garden, so it was a convenient opportunity to keep a closer eye on her British portfolio too. She had a trusted team and Board of Management operating back in Dublin so for the first time in her life she felt free to explore this new and wonderful relationship.

She had decided to walk back from her earlier appointment, hugging herself with pure joy as she imagined what Mycroft's response would be to what had just been confirmed by the very private and discreet gynaecologist, the office of whom she'd floated out of twenty minutes earlier. She had managed to elude her security detail after leaving the house that morning, making her way to Harley Street unaccompanied, simply because they had not expected her to evade them; but she had wanted to find out for herself, to tell Mycroft their news first, before any security team filled him in on where she'd been.

Aoife was used to security as she'd had it her whole life. She was the owner/director of Irelands wealthiest indigenous company, Oisin Holdings, and topped the 'rich list' of Irish people and so she'd always had discreet and professional bodyguards. Her remit for the last number of years was to work as a security consultant herself for the Irish Government so she'd fully accepted and co-operated with Mycroft's security team since she'd moved to London to live with him a few short months ago.

She'd arranged with the Taoiseach to work from London as a security and enterprise consultant, through the Irish Embassy, specialising in Anglo Irish relations. Michael had moved to London with her too, much to her delight, seconded from the Irish Gardaí to working on Irish/NI cross border security, under her direction. She laughed to herself thinking of him, because he seemed to be in his element. He was spending a lot of time with Sherlock, now that the two of them were mates and John Watson was less available as a new father, as well as charming every attractive single woman in his vicinity.

As usual though, her thoughts flew back to Mycroft. She had a strong suspicion that she had not fooled him at breakfast, when he'd asked her about her plans for the day. She grimaced, momentarily feeling guilty as she recalled his chilly demeanour in response to the very first lie she'd ever told him; white though it was. She had caught the momentary flicker of hurt on his face when she'd responded that she was meeting Sherlock and Molly in 221B to go over the final snag list before signing off on the renovations. She knew he knew she was lying; but he had not challenged her.

She rolled her eyes as she once again pondered the ramifications of loving the smartest man on the planet. You could get away with nothing! He'll understand shortly, she thought, and wondered what the chances were that he'd be home early that evening. Just this once she might ask him to come home, she decided. She could not wait to see his face when she told him their news. She put her hand back in her pocket and stroked the envelope with the sonogram picture of their baby, and her eyes glistened with happy tears.

She greeted the unusually stern security men stationed at the gate of the house as she passed them to walk up the long side path to the front door. She smiled at them apologetically, guessing guiltily that they must have got into trouble for losing her earlier. They were obviously pissed off, she thought, because they remained stony faced. She'd get Mycroft to be nice to them later.

Aoife keyed in the security code to release the lock. She frowned at the 'error' message that flashed across the security pad and glanced quizzically up at the camera over the door. She rekeyed in the code that had been changed only the day before but the error message flashed again. Sighing, she pulled out her mobile phone and called Mycroft. He must have changed it again for some reason, and neglected to tell her. He had appeared a little distracted of late. He answered just as she thought it would switch to his voicemail.

"Aoife."

She frowned slightly again, the first feeling of unease creeping over her. His tone was off.

"Hi Mycroft, sorry to disturb you but I can't get into the house; has the code been changed again since yesterday?"

"Yes, it has."

Cold and brittle voiced, and it was all he said. Aoife stilled. Something was very wrong. There was a long and ominous silence while she waited for him to continue; to explain to her what the hell was going on. Finally, he broke the silence, exhaling one long impatient sigh.

"You no longer have access to my home. Your possessions have been packed and delivered to the Connaught Hotel." He paused again, and then continued, "you know why."

Aoife felt the blood receding from her face. Her stomach flipped over and her heart began to race in her chest. She had no idea what he was talking about; what was wrong with him, and felt an overwhelming wave of anxiety and panic. She swallowed back a large lump that had lodged in her throat. Her voice was very low; very quiet, as she responded,

"Actually, no, Mycroft, I have no idea why."

He emitted another one of those awful, impatient, disparaging sighs and she had to bite back a gasp of hurt.

"Alright Aoife, if you insist on dragging this out. 'Someone'...", he drawled the 'someone' out so sarcastically, so coldly, that Aoife felt herself freeze, just freeze up, because this person, this voice on the phone, was barely recognisable as the man she had thought loved her completely.

"Someone" he repeated, "revealed the British Government's tender bid for the new Google European headquarters deal to the Irish Government's negotiating team, and lo and behold, they bid from under us and won the tender..." He stopped then and there was silence again. Aoife's mind raced. She shook her head in unconscious denial.

"And you assume it was me?" So quiet, her voice, she thought abstractedly; this must be what shock does because she could hardly speak, hardly hear her own words.

"I don't make assumptions, Aoife. I know it was you. I'm actually disappointed that you're denying it. You know who I am. What is the point in lying?"

Aoife felt her heart crack in her chest. She sucked in very deep breaths and bit the inside of her lip; trying to keep control, trying not to cry in front of him, this cold fucking stranger who she now knew was watching her through that camera over the door. She stuck out her jaw determinedly, took a deep breath and said,

"The only time I have ever lied to you was this morning. I'm leaving the reason for that 'lie' on the doorstep, and no, Mycroft, I'm beginning to realise I don't know who you are. I don't know who you are at all."

Aoife took the envelope containing the sonogram photo out of her pocket, stooped down and lay it on the door-step. Her heart wouldn't stop thumping in her chest and she desperately fought back the tears she knew were coming. She fought them and held them off, because she knew that when she finally succumbed to them, it would be a very long time before she stopped. Tall and dignified, she turned from the door to leave forever, and then paused. She lifted the diamond Tiffany key pendant that Mycroft had given her over her head and dropped it through her fingers. She watched, almost detachedly, as it tumbled towards the step. The platinum chain landed and splayed; partly covering the envelope. Then, rigid jawed, she walked back down the pathway and out onto the footpath.

In his office in River House, Mycroft Holmes watched her walk slowly back down the path, her magnificent head held high, and exit onto the street, until he lost sight of her completely, and his heart splintered in his chest. He had trusted her, loved her, and she had taken that trust and broken him with it. He lifted his phone to the senior agent guarding his home. "Follow her and make sure she gets to the hotel safely." He didn't wait for an answer and turned off his phone, wiping a ridiculous tear angrily from his cheek.

'Deep breaths Aoife, deep breaths. Control yourself. Call Michael; get Michael,' Aoife told herself as she walked aimlessly down the road. She was cold, trembling, and she knew she was on the verge of going into shock. She felt Mycroft's agents following her and she hated them then. She lifted her phone and called Michael and thank God, he answered on the second ring.

"Howaya Aoife," and it was Michael and his familiar Irish accent, beloved, like home, and she almost lost it. She took a deep breath and couldn't speak, afraid the dam would break before she was ready, while she was outside, exposed, where someone may recognise her, might photograph her. "Aoife, what's wrong?" urgent now because he could hear her trying to control her breathing. He flipped the phone to speaker so Sherlock could hear her too.

"Come and get me Michael, please.," it was faint and it was pleading and it was so not her voice, but it was the sound that was coming out of her mouth. Michael jumped up off John's chair, locking urgent eyes with Sherlock Holmes as he grabbed both their jackets and they both moved towards the door.

"I'm with Sherlock darlin, we're coming for you. Where are you? Are you ok?" The two men raced down the stairs and out onto Baker Street, sprinting now to Michael's car. Aoife took another deep breath and gripping her last tendril of control, she replied,

"I'm up the road from Mycroft's house in Mayfair," she stopped walking and stood still, waiting for them. "Tell Sherlock I have another case for him." She closed her phone and leaned back against a garden wall, hugging her waist with her arms. As the car raced to Aoife Quinn, Sherlock rang his brother and the phone went straight to voicemail. Ten minutes later and their car pulled up beside her. Sherlock jumped out and gripped her arms, rapidly scanning her for injuries. She stepped back out of his hold.

"I'm fine Sherlock." He shook his head slowly and taking her hand gently in his, he led her to the car.

"No, you're not Aoife," he said calmly, "but you will be; trust me." She looked into his eyes then for the first time and he clenched his jaw at the stark pain he saw in hers. He coaxed her gently into the back seat and sat in beside her as Michael drove to the hotel. Though she tried to pull it away, he refused to let go of her hand, feeling the slight tremble from it and feeling the rage rising in him because of it. Aoife was trembling, this beautiful, warrior women who hadn't flinched against deranged psychopaths. She was close to shock and deathly pale. He squeezed her hand.

"Tell me," he said firmly, and she turned her head to look at him briefly again, before staring at their joined hands as she collected her thoughts.

"I've been accused of both industrial espionage and of deceiving the British Government, as an Irish official. I need you to clear my name, defend my personal reputation, my company's reputation and above all, my Government's reputation, before I go home to Ireland." She dropped his hand and stared silently out the car window. Michael caught Sherlock's eyes in the car mirror and said furiously,

"I'm going to fucking kill your brother."


	2. The Irish Connection - London Calling - Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little warning friends. Miscarriage is mentioned in this chapter.

Chapter 2  
Sherlock sighed heavily and then replied, “I’m feeling a strong murderous compulsion myself, but let’s wait until we get to the hotel and I can get in touch with Mycroft. I’m sure he can account for all this, clear it all up, as it were.” 

Feeling Aoife flinch beside her at the mention of his brother’s name, he stared at her in shocked surprise. She took another long staggered breath and Sherlock knew she was approaching breakpoint. Her pulse was racing and her breathing was accelerated. He opted not to discuss the issue any further until they’d settled Aoife into her hotel. Without turning her head from her fixed gaze out the car window, Aoife murmured quietly but firmly,

“let me be very clear here, I’ll explain all I know of events to you Sherlock, when I get the chance to catch my breath, but I do not wish to speak to Mycroft Holmes any time soon. Any and all contact will be through my solicitor or you personally, if you are willing,” and the broken quiver half way through her statement elicited another colourful expletive from a highly concerned Michael. 

“Alright Aoife,” Sherlock agreed, “look, we’re here now, let’s get in and have a nice cup of tea.” That brought the tracing of a rueful smile to her lips, and then it was gone. Michael pulled the car up to the front door, hopped out and throwing the keys to the valet, he opened the car door for Aoife, his concern etched on his handsome features. As she stepped out he wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his broad frame. She sighed and wrapping an arm around his waist, she gripped his hip and rested her head on his shoulder, letting him lead her into the hotel. 

Sherlock was slightly ahead of them and on her other side, shielding her with his body and gesturing to the concierge. They were expecting her, and somehow, that didn’t surprise her in the least. Mycroft was nothing if not thorough. He’d reserved the best suite for her and for the first time, she felt a surge of rage sweep through her. This was her hotel; the fucking cheek of him. She sucked in a breath, and as they approached the lifts, they were rushed by not one, but two photographers. Knowing she looked pale and sick, she turned her face further into Michael’s wide shoulder. They got in her face as much as they could though, shouting rude questions about ‘swapping Holmes brothers’ until Sherlock nudged them roughly out of the way and the lift doors shut them out, leaving a stunned silence in their wake as the lift sped up to the penthouse suite. 

“They were expecting us,” Michael stated, incredulously. “What in the name of God is going on here?” 

Sherlock’s lips set in a thin line but otherwise he remained silent until they’d closed the door of the penthouse suite behind them. He ushered Aoife gently to a chair and got her a glass of water. Her hand shook as she raised it to her lips and Michael cursed again. Aoife stood up suddenly, excused herself and rushed into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her. Michael looked at Sherlock and for once, he had no snappy answers. He lifted his phone and called Molly Hooper, leaving her a message to get there immediately because Aoife needed her. Then the two friends winced at each other because they could hear the wretched sounds of Aoife emptying the contents of her stomach in the bathroom. Michael ran his hand through his hair in distress and strode towards the bathroom door. She came out though, just as he reached it. 

“Can someone ring Dr McKenzie please?” A trembling hand held a business card out towards Michael. “Can you ask him to come immediately, tell him that I’m afraid I’m losing my baby.” 

He gasped in shock and caught her as she fell to the floor. Sherlock stared as Michael and grabbed the card as Michael carried a collapsing Aoife over to lay her on a bed. Sherlock called the doctor, who promised to be there in the next half an hour. Michael pulled off Aoife’s shoes and opened her trousers button. The men took her jacket off and Sherlock tapped her very lightly on the face. 

“Come on now Aoife, open your eyes, you just fainted. Come on now, that’s a good girl.”   
Her eyelids fluttered and she raised a clammy hand to stall Sherlock tapping on her cheeks.   
“I did not bloody faint! And did you just call me a ‘good girl’? She threw him a glare, and he smothered a relieved grin. Michael gave a small splutter, 

“Ah, there she is, she’s back. You hang on darlin, the doctor is coming.” 

She nodded at him, and smiled wanly. She reached her arms out and gripped his shoulder and he climbed up onto the bed beside her, pulling her into his. Aoife finally let go, sobbing into his chest. Michael rocked her in his arms, soothing her, and widened his eyes in shock at Sherlock. He, for the want of something to do, called the concierge and demanded that the doctor and Molly Hooper be brought directly to the suite as soon as they arrived. He paced and put on the kettle and after a while Aoife quietened and Michael just continued to murmur to her, in English and in Irish, and she trembled and was quiet but silent tears poured down her cheeks and Sherlock thought they were worse than her sobs. Finally sated, she sighed deeply and pulling away from Michael, she sat up and gave her two friends a brave smile. 

“You just wait, Aoife Quinn, that’s a Quinn Holmes you have there, and that’s the toughest it gets.” Her smile got a little wider.  
“I hope you’re right Sherlock…” she replied, glancing at the door as both Molly and the gynaecologist arrived at the same time. The two men looked at each other in undisguised relief. The cavalry had arrived. His brilliant, empathetic girl took in the situation in a split second, pulled him into a quick hug, and then ushered Sherlock and Michael towards the door. 

“Leave her with me, Sherlock. You go and find Mycroft, find out what the hell that plonker has done.” 

Pulling the door sharply open as the two doctors approached his friend, lying so quiet and afraid on the bed, Michael hissed out, “me first” and launched, enraged, out of the room. 

“Stay with her until we get back Molly, please,”   
Sherlock called over his shoulder as he ran after his furious friend. He let Michael rant until they got into the car and he’d turned the engine and asked him where Mycroft was likely to be. He looked calmly at him. 

“Let’s be sensible here Michael. Mycroft worships the ground that woman walks on, so there are three possible scenarios at play here; one, Mycroft has deliberately pushed her away because of a serious threat to her due to her relationship with him. Two, she really did betray him, highly unlikely or she’s the best liar I’ve ever seen, or three, and this is the one I’m leaning towards, someone has managed to attack my brother at his Achilles heel, as it were, and set them both up. So, as distressing as it is to see Aoife in such pain, kindly refrain from killing my brother as it is without any question that he is in as much pain as she is, especially if he knows about his child, which, by now, he does. Now, let’s go to the Diogenes Club because that is where he is likely to be.” 

Michael stared at his friend’s impassive face and shook his head in exasperation. 

“Jaysus, how do you do that? Now I’m almost feeling sorry for the guy.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips contemplatively as the car pulled away from the hotel and into the London traffic. 

“That’s what John always says.” 

The two men gave a rueful laugh and then Michael sighed, heartbroken for Aoife.

“Well then, lets sort this mess out Sherlock, but I do know one thing now for certain…” he allowed a little smirk as Sherlock raised an enquiring brow, “love makes fools of us all.” 

Sherlock laughed and then his eyes popped in delight. “Yes! Finally! I am the smart one!” 

Michael glared at him. “Inappropriate, Sherlock.”

“Yep. John always says that too.” 

Michael rolled his eyes to the sky and mentioned God again. Ater a few minutes of contemplative silence, Sherlock looked sideways at him. 

“You were good with her there, Michael, when she was upset. You knew what to say and when to say nothing.”

“She’s my family, Sherlock. I love her.” 

He nodded in response.

“Well, she’s carrying my family now, and I…think she’s very special too.”   
Michael laughed at his inept friend. “She loves you too, Sherlock.”

In his private room in the Diogenes Club, Mycroft Holmes took the A5 brown manila envelope from his senior agent and then waved him out of the room. He waited until the door closed and took a swig from his second glass of whiskey before opening it. He knew that it contained the pendant he’d given Aoife but he was almost afraid to have his suspicions on the other contents of the other small envelope confirmed. 

With shaking hands, he opened it and stared in horror at the sonography photograph with Aoife’s name on the top, time stamped and dated for 10:00am that very morning. His hands flew to his face and he drew a deep breath. Every conviction he had of Aoife’s guilt flew out the window. She’d been hiding something alright, but what if it was this, and only this? ‘Oh Christ,’ he groaned, ‘what have I done?” He grabbed frantically for his phone and turned it back on. He needed Sherlock first, and then he needed to see Aoife. 

Molly called Sherlock just as the car pulled up outside the front door of the club. “How is she Molly?”

“Oh Sherlock, she’s fine, the baby’s fine. It was just a bit of ‘spotting,’ perfectly normal. She just panicked a bit because she’d already had a shock.” 

Sherlock expelled the breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding and smiled broadly at Michael, who muttered a relieved “thank Christ” under his breath. 

“She wants to talk to you, she says, fill you in properly on her version of events.” 

“That’s fine, Molly, I want to talk to her too. She needs to rest a while now though. Don’t let her leave, if you can manage that. Tell her I’m coming back to interview her. That’ll keep her there. Can you stay with her until Michael and I get back please?” 

“Umm, of course.” Molly lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mycroft just tried to call her, and she declined it and blocked him. Now she’s crying again.” Sherlock sighed. 

“Molly, if I ever show any signs of behaving like a total ass, you have my full permission to slap me.” 

Molly giggled, in the way he loved, into his ear. 

“Oh Sherlock, I couldn’t possibly do that. You’d be permanently marked.” 

He spluttered an indignant laugh and growled into the phone, “you, woman, will pay for that later,” 

He soaked up her little gasp and then hung up the phone, ignoring Michael’s exaggerated eye-rolling. Lighter now, both of them, they trotted up the steps and into the lobby, where a white faced Mycroft Holmes was pacing and waiting for them. 

“Why was Dr McKensy seeing Aoife at the Connacht, Sherlock? Is she ok? 

Sherlock took his brother’s arm and led him none too gently towards his private room. 

“She’s fine, she just had a scare. Mycroft, let’s discuss this in private.” 

Mycroft sighed in relief and ushering them into the room, he closed the door firmly. He looked at Michael, grim faced, “you have my full permission to punch me in the face.”

“Believe me mate, if I feel you deserve it, I won’t need your fucking permission.” Sherlock tutted at the two of them. 

“This is not getting us anywhere, now just sit down, both of you, and Mycroft, why don’t you start telling us why you eviscerated the woman you love on the morning she found out she as the mother of your child?”

Mycroft flinched, and silently nodded his head. The three men sat down at a small conference table. Mycroft opened his briefcase and swallowed a pained breath as Aoife’s diamond pendant glistened up at him. He lifted it and slipped it into his inside pocket. Then he took out a folder, and his infamous laptop, switching it on. He met the curious gazes of his brother and the Irish detective.

“let me start with what I know, but first Sherlock, I want to hire you personally, to find out who’s behind this. I thought I did know, and in a knee jerk, emotive reaction, I ‘eviscerated the woman I love,’ but now, I no longer believe that and I want to find the bastard who did this to us.”

“I can’t take your case, Mycroft,” he raised a finger at his brother, who had started to protest, “I can’t, because Aoife has already hired me to achieve the same outcome; to clear her name. Hardly the reaction of a devious, scheming and victorious industrial spy, now is it?” 

Mycroft buried his face in his hands again. “No, it is not. Nor was her reaction to my accusations when I watched it back just now.” 

Michael leaned his whole body forward towards Mycroft and his face was flushed. “You filmed it?”

Mycroft flushed with shame. “The camera on my front door filmed it.” It took Michael a second but then he leapt to his feet and reaching across the table, he lifted Mycroft out of his chair by his lapels. “You locked her out of the house!” 

“Go ahead and punch me Michael. Believe me, I know I deserve it.” Sherlock sighed and pulled the two men apart. 

“For God’s sake stop! Sit down, both of you. I don’t have time for this, and Aoife certainly deserves better.” 

The two men froze instantly and dropped back in their seats. 

“Thank you. Mycroft, start at the beginning and leave nothing out.” 

Michael sat back far in his seat and crossed his arms on his chest, glaring at Mycroft. Sherlock turned to him directly. 

“Michael, I’ll hear him out myself, but I need you to start gathering intelligence from the Irish side right now though. Find out about every member of their team negotiating for the Google tender.” He frowned and looked at Mycroft. “Wait a damn minute, aren’t they already in Dublin for bloody years?” Mycroft and Michael nodded simultaneously. 

“Yes, but they need to expand and the lease is up on the building they are currently occupying.” 

Sherlock laughed.   
“They’re playing both sides. For God sake Mycroft, the staff are settled there for years, they have mortgages, children in schools, lives there, did we really think, what with ya know…, Brexit, and the Irish corporate tax rate at only 12%, that Google would even consider moving from Dublin?” 

“No, not really.” He responded. 

“So the tender was just bait?” 

“No, definitely not! We decided it was worth a shot.” 

He pulled a sheet out of the file and handed it to Michael. 

“That’s the list of names on the Irish Government side, I don’t believe that any of them are involved, not knowingly anyway. They’re mainly just senior civil servants. But check lifestyle changes or unusual bank balances. I would appreciate it, however, if you could also assist me in getting intelligence on the board members of Oisin Holdings.” 

Michael stared at him with narrowed eyes.

“You suspect one of them?” 

“I do, one or more. There’s been ‘pressure’ on Aoife of late to float her company on the stock market. She, quite wisely, refuses to do so. They weathered the tide during Ireland’s economic collapse because they were not exposed to the stock market, and the vulture capitalists that prey on vulnerable companies. Aoife intends to keep it in the family, but not everyone is happy about it. Board members would gain millions if they floated the company. Her moving her own centre of interest away from Dublin, to London, may have weakened her position. While the cat’s away, kind of thing.” 

She’d exposed herself for him, and he’d slapped it back in her face. Michael bit back his initial insulting response. Hell, the guy was hurting enough as it was. So he just nodded and agreed to get on the next flight back to Dublin. He stood up to leave and looked hard at Mycroft.

“Do you want her back?”

Mycroft locked eyes with him and nodded his head determinedly. 

“More than my next breath. Just tell me how?” 

Michael laughed harshly but as he turned to leave he relented and smiled pityingly at him. 

“You do what men in love have had to do since we crawled out of the cave. You grovel,” and he closed the door loudly behind him.


	3. The Irish Connection - London Calling - Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely comments and kudo's. They keep me motivated. Let's crack on...

Chapter 3  
After Michael’s departure, Mycroft dragged his hands down his face again and then looked despairingly at his brother.  
“How is she?” 

Sherlock looked sombrely at him.  
“You know how she is.”

“Tell me anyway.” 

Sherlock sighed, impatient to get on with Mycroft’s full explanation. 

“She was acutely distressed, shocked, and heartbroken when Michael and I got to her in Mayfair. She experienced even more stress when we reached the hotel because she was frightened that she was losing her baby. Molly is with her and the consultant has reassured her that the baby is in no danger. Is she the one in danger Mycroft? Is that why you did this?”

“No, that’s not why. I’m a complete idiot Sherlock. Was it really so simple, in the end? They played on my own insecurities.”

“Mycroft! Not this again!”

“From the man who could model for GQ magazine. You’ll never understand. Sometimes I look at her and she’s so beautiful, extraordinary, and I keep having to ask myself what the hell is she doing with me? We are chalk and cheese Sherlock, Beauty and the Beast is just a bloody fairy-tale.”

“That’s just pathetic Mycroft. How many times do we have to have this conversation? She chose you. She loves you. Do you really believe that she moved in with you, has sex with you, because she’s an Irish version of the Mata Hari? For Christ’s sake, she’s a billionaire, so money is not a motive for her anyway. We share as much security information with Ireland as we do with the yanks, so that’s not a motive either. What on earth were you thinking?” He sighed, really frustrated with his brother. “There’s more, what happened yesterday and today; what are you not telling me?”

“It was a succession of little things, information that got out before we intended, nothing too serious, not as big as the Google tender, but all enterprise issues and all relating to the Republic of Ireland. We may have the best relationship with the Irish in our nations histories, but we still compete with them for business and well, they’re bloody good at it. The only other English speaking country in Europe, and God knows they have the charm offensive down to a tee…” he flinched in agony, thinking of Aoife’s laughing green eyes. He sighed sadly again and continued.   
“The point is, every piece of information that was leaked, was, at some point, documented in my briefcase, and the only place that case is not in my direct eyesight is in my office and at home; and I’m absolutely certain that it was not accessed at River House. 

“Oh really?” Sherlock snorted disparagingly. “That place is leakier than a colander.”

“Yes really, Sherlock. Either Anthea or myself had it at all times in the last two months.” 

“I may be wrong brother dear, but I suspect it’s advisable never to say to Aoife that you trusted Anthea more than her.” Mycroft closed his eyes, conceding the point. 

“If she ever speaks to me again, that is.”

“Give her time, Mycroft, and get in touch with her.”

“How? She’s blocked me from her phone. She won’t see me. I know her Sherlock, she’s so proud. She may never forgive me.”

“If you know her so well, how in the hell did you believe for one second that she’d betray you? How could you doubt her?” 

“I believe it was myself I doubted, not her, not really.” He looked bleakly at his brother. “I was awful to her, Sherlock, I humiliated her.” 

“I know.”

“She’s carrying my child. She practically skipped up my garden path this morning, and I…” His voice broke off. 

“Write her a letter, and I’ll deliver it to her. You’d better make it good.” He paused in thought. 

“I’ll need to interview your driver, any agents with access to your house, and before you ask, no it wasn’t me.”

“I know, I ruled you out. Only because you were in Ireland with Molly for most of the other times.”

“Also, your household staff.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’ve checked them all out, for God’s sake Sherlock. I’m not an idiot” Sherlock raised a mocking brow and his brother sighed again. 

“I take your point, besides my housekeeper, Helen, whom you know and has worked for me for over fifteen years, there’s a gardening company on contract, but they never access the house. There are two-part time cleaners, both of whom are Polish and their security checks are clean.” Sherlock nodded. 

“Right, tell me what happened last night and this morning to precipitate your idiocy this afternoon.” Mycroft glared at him but complied.

“I left my briefcase open on my desk in my study last evening from about seven o’clock while I exercised on the thread-mill upstairs. The UK tender document was actually open on my desk. Up until then I had never really suspected Aoife, and well, maybe you’re right, I knew we were never going to get Google out of Dublin, so yes, I did set the bait and hope to find out who it was. Look, let me just show you why I was so angry, and so convinced.” He clicked a file on his laptop and then looked pleadingly at his brother. “Please, Sherlock, don’t mention this film to anybody else, not even Molly, and certainly not Michael. I want to talk to Aoife myself before the situation between us gets even worse.” 

Sherlock nodded in agreement. He watched the laptop, the film of Aoife, starting as she can be clearly seen calling his brother’s name as she walked into his study, obviously looking for him. She pauses, tuts, as she notices his absence. She tugged at the zipper at the back of her day-dress, and it was apparent that she was looking for him to assist her with it. Sherlock watched keenly as she pulled out her phone and pressed a speed-dial number. Immediately, a phone buzzed on the desk. She tuts again and approached the desk, picking up Mycroft’s phone. Her eyes fall to the open documents, then she can be seen squinting at them and muttering an expletive. She pulled out her phone again as she left the room. Then the film ended. 

“Where’s the rest of the film?” Sherlock asked, irritated. 

“What do you mean, the rest of it? What more do you need? It’s totally incriminating!” 

“Mycroft, don’t be so obtuse. I want to see the film from when you opened the briefcase, took out the document, left the room, up until you came back in and locked it away.” Mycroft stared at him, and groaned.

Sherlock’s phone rang. “That was fast, Michael” 

“Yeah, I’m in a taxi to the airport. I’m using the time to set up interviews with the Irish tender team for later tonight and tomorrow and they’re very surprised, as they know I work with Aoife. Guess why they’re surprised, Sherlock?”

“Oh, because last night Aoife recused herself from consulting with their negotiating team, by telephone, citing a conflict of interest, at, let me guess, about 7:10pm.” 

Mycroft groaned, his head downcast and in his hands. “I am a complete and utter idiot.” 

Sherlock shoved a pen and paper across the table at his brother. 

“You are; now start grovelling.” 

Mycroft clenched his jaw and picking up the pen and paper, he began to write. 

“Michael, you still there?” 

“Yep. I thought your brother was a genius?” 

Sherlock laughed.   
“He is; he’s having an ‘off’ week. He’s going to be a father. We’ll have to excuse him. Now listen, someone on that team got a tip off about the British bid. That’s for sure. Interview them all and put pressure on them. ‘Criminal espionage’, ‘threatening international relations’, that sort of thing, that’ll rattle them. Probably useless though, it was an anonymous phone call to one or more of them. We need to find the leak in both countries, although I’m pretty sure I know who it is on this end, we just need to know who is pulling their strings from Ireland. It’s more than likely a board member of Oisin Holdings, I’ll fly over there to interview them all with you so hold off on them until I get there. We’ll get Aoife to call a board meeting as soon as possible afterwards, shake them out. She’ll need to get them all back to Ireland, they’re an international company, I’m sure they’re all scattered to the four winds at the moment.” 

“Right you are, Sherlock, let me know when you get to Dublin.” Michael rang off. Mycroft, instead of writing on the paper, was sending an email. 

“I’m getting phone records, and travel details for every member of that board for the last few months examined, especially focus on London or other UK visits.”

“The Irish Intelligence Services will go mental if they catch you.”

“Yes, well, they won’t mind if they don’t find out until afterwards, deniability, and all that, and I’m going to destroy the bastard that did this.” He paused and sighing deeply, he looked across at his brilliant brother again.

“You said you know the leak from here. I’m going to get Helen’s phone records too. It was Helen, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes.”

“Care to divulge why?”

“She’s fifty-two years old and in love with you. She has been for years. Quietly, undeclared and unrequited. Then, you brought Aoife into your home. You have never brought a woman to live with you before, and she’s, like you said, beautiful, younger than her by nearly twenty years, but worse of all, Mycroft, she’s Irish.” 

Mycroft stared, aghast, back at him.

“Her brother was shot dead by the IRA while on border patrol in Co Armagh, twenty-seven-years ago. Ah Christ Sherlock, Aoife asked me a couple of times about her, she said she sensed that Helen didn’t like her, and I dismissed it as two women staking out territory. I have never been so wrong, so blind, in my life.” 

“No, I don’t believe you have. It’s very unsettling Mycroft, I don’t like it, don’t do it again. Oh and I wouldn’t let it fester with Aoife, if I were you. Why don’t you come back to the hotel with me and give her the letter yourself? You have to start apologising, at least. She doesn’t know that you believe her to be innocent yet. Start there.”

Mycroft looked at his younger brother with a perplexed, astonished expression. “Molly Hooper is very good for you, Sherlock. I glad you found each other.” “He shook is head despairingly. “Aoife won’t see me. She’s too hurt and angry, but I will go with you; I’ll get another room there, so she’ll know I’m nearby, and well, I don’t want to go home, not without her. Let’s not tip Helen off. I’ll get agents to put surveillance on her. I don’t want to see her yet, if at all. You should interrogate her. I can’t do it. I’ll probably kill her.” 

Sherlock didn’t doubt it for a minute. They sat in silence while Mycroft finished his letter and then he folded it, sealed it in an envelope, and handed it to his brother. Sherlock tucked it into his breast pocket and stood up, looking sympathetically at his brother. He gestured to the door.

“Shall we?”


	4. The Irish Connection - London Calling - Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The journey back to the Connacht Hotel was a relatively silent one. Mycroft was brooding and Sherlock took the opportunity to review the file which his driver had handed him as they'd sat into the car. He had passed it to Sherlock without opening it. "I ran a security check on Oisin Holding's board of directors when I first met her, so this is a few months old, nothing too forensic, but there was no cause for concern then. They're digging deeper now, of course, and I let you have the updated file as soon as I get it."

'After you identify the culprit yourself', Sherlock thought, but he kept his thoughts to himself. It was, after all, no more than he'd do himself if it was his Molly, and their home that had been breached. He tossed the file aside. More detailed information was required but he knew all the players now. His brother was tense and pensive beside him and he was glad when they pulled up outside the hotel. They separated in the lobby and he left Mycroft to check in as he made his way back up to Aoife and Molly.

She greeted him with a tight hug as he entered the suite and he couldn't help pulling her back in when she moved to separate from him. He did what he always did to tease her, and pulled the hair tie out of her hair, taking down that interminable ponytail, and letting her long silky tendrils run through his fingers before he pocketing the tie out of her reach. She emitted the half exasperated, half amused laugh and he chuckled into her ear as he dropped a quick kiss there. More importantly on this occasion, he'd managed to make Aoife smile as she approached him too.

"Brat," she asserted. It was her nickname for him, for good reason, if he were honest, and it was good to hear it in her teasing lilt and good to see her smile, brief as it was. Aoife and he had clicked into a real friendship from their first meeting. Initially, he had thought that it was due to his uncanny resemblance to her murdered twin brother, (Moriarty seemed to have a 'type'), but it had quickly matured into something far more substantial. She was the sister he never had and he was damned if he was going to lose her any more than Mycroft would.

"Maybe, but you're stuck with me now that I'm going to be an uncle." She smiled at him and muttered, "yes, I suppose I am, it's just another cross I'll have to bear."

There was a question in her eyes that she refused to ask, but he answered her anyway, as he pulled her in for a quick hug.

"He's checking in downstairs and is desperate to speak to you, to see you," She stiffened in his arms and pulling away.

"I never asked you about him." Her green eyes flashed with anger and he recognised that Mycroft really did have his work cut out for him.

"Sure you did," he replied gently, and she looked away from him, crossed her arms across her chest and actually pouted, but said nothing else. He watched her mind racing. She was no idiot, this woman.

"If he's here he knows I never leaked anything back to Ireland."

Sherlock nodded solemnly at her. She opened her mouth to pass a snarky comment but then thought better of it. She peered, speculatively, at him and then held out her hand.

"Hand it over then," she demanded firmly.

He spluttered in astonishment, and then rolled his eyes, and reaching into his breast pocket, he took out Mycroft's letter and handed it over as directed. There was a knock on the door and when he answered it, two agents greeted him and then asked to speak to Aoife. She, ever the professional, invited them in.

"How can I help you, gentlemen?"

"Mr Holmes wishes your permission for us to be posted as your security detail, Ms Quinn"

"My co-operation, you mean."

"No mam, he specifically said 'permission'. He said to be sure to be quite clear." She looked at Sherlock, as if for assistance and he nodded his approval. She sighed deeply and turned to them.

"You may stay until I organise my own security from Ireland, or until I leave the UK, whichever comes first. Tell him that's what I permit."

She looked sad and pensive and went to sit down again but halted and thanked the agents for taking care of her. They nodded in relief and hastened back to their posts outside the hotel door. He watched her in admiration as she visibly pulled herself together. Meeting his eyes again she gave him a soft smile.

"Ask me your questions."

Molly asked if she should leave but they both shook their heads at the same time and Sherlock sat down beside her and pulled her into a hug. "It won't take long, and then we can go home together," he moved away as she nodded and leaned forward to smile at Aoife.

"Tell me what happened with the tender."

Aoife winced and told him almost exactly what he'd he'd deduced. She said that she had searched for Mycroft in his office, how she'd called his phone but it rang on his desk and when she walked around to fetch it, the paper was on his desk with the UK bid in bold font.

"I could hardly miss it, Sherlock." She froze. "Oh my God! Was that bait for me?"

Sherlock shook his head quickly. "No Aoife, he swears not. He said it was bait for the leak, not for you." She dropped her head in her hands, distressed.

"But he thought it was me," she blinked tears back, determinedly. "When I saw the UK figure, I immediately called the Irish team and recused myself." She sighed deeply and was quiet, deep in thought, and they didn't break the silence. She looked back up at them both and looked stricken.

"I should have told him immediately; should have told him last night. I was distracted by my possible pregnancy, by my appointment this morning, and I didn't mention it. I should have. Back in Ireland, when we first got together, we made a deal. We promised each other that if something arose in our work that was a conflict of interest, we'd tell each other immediately."

"It's not your fault Aoife!" Molly protested, and Sherlock dug her gently in the side. She glared at him. "Well, it isn't!" she protested. He popped his eyes at her and she understood and bit her bottom lip guiltily. There were signs of hope here for Mycroft, Sherlock thought and gestured Molly to look at Aoife's hands. She was still holding his letter.

Aoife looked steadily at Sherlock. "Mycroft did not 'swing the axe' this morning because of one isolated incident. Which means that there have been other incidents, other leaks from the house, to implicate me. It is without doubt, happening with the assistance of that jealous bitch, Helen. I don't care about her. I want to know who in Ireland is doing this to me. It's someone on the board, it has to be, someone trying to discredit me." She shook her head in disgust.

"I want them rooted out, please Sherlock. We employ almost 10,000 people in Ireland, and they couldn't give a shit about them, whoever's doing this. If they are prepared to weaken the company's reputation by damaging mine, they are jeopardising all of those people's financial security, their families, their mortgages. I'll not have it; we fought so hard, every last one of them, to stay afloat during the worst recession since WW2, and I will not allow some greedy scumbag to succeed where that recession failed."

"We're already on it Aoife, myself, Michael, and," he gentled his voice, "Mycroft. She looked at him and he fancied her expression softened and then she looked at him with a shrewd 'I know what you're up to' expression, but she clutched the letter in her hand a little tighter, and he pretended he didn't notice. Molly squeezed his arm. She obviously noticed too.

"Michael's on his way to Dublin, to interview the Irish negotiating team…"

"It isn't one of them." He continued as if he hadn't been interrupted.

"He's also rounding up the board, and we'll both interview them." She nodded at that.

"Fair enough. O'Brian and Merrigan are in New York. I think Peterson is in Spain on holidays with his family. He'll have to fly back in, if only for a few hours. The rest are in Ireland, as far as I know, as far as they've told me anyway." She looked distressed again momentarily. "We have to catch whomever is doing this. I hate suspecting everyone. I've worked with these people for years, been to their homes for dinner..." She trailed off, she had nothing more to say.

Molly stood up, indicating it was time to leave. "Try to eat something Aoife." She hugged her goodbye and taking Sherlock's hand in hers, they made for the door. Aoife grinned ruefully at him, "I know, don't say it. I'm eating for two." He laughed as he hugged her goodbye, "alright, I won't then, I'll see you tomorrow."

After they left, Aoife paced the hotel suite, glowering at the unopened letter in her hand. Her phone rang with the special tone she had selected for the Taoiseach and she grabbed it immediately and answered. "Taoiseach, how are you?"

"I'm just fine, Aoife, more to the point, how are you?" She shook her head in confusion. He couldn't know anything, not yet, at any rate.

"I'm grand; why do you ask, Sir?"

"Oh, no reason. Just catching up. Actually, I've just finished a call from Mycroft Holmes. He wished to congratulate us on our success with the Google tender, he mentioned more than once how we'd won it 'fair and square'. I found it curious. Then I discover he's orchestrated a Government Press Statement to the same affect. It's most unlike him to be so magnanimous in defeat; don't you think? A UK press statement is unprecedented, and most unnecessary, in this instance, and then I discover that you'd recused yourself from the negotiating team last night."

Aoife was rendered speechless. Mycroft had gone out of his way to bat for her. It was also a perfect chess move, it was damage control before the damage could take place. Where her anonymous nemesis had expected anger and accusation from the British Government, they'd got the opposite.

"I.., I…" Christ, was she stammering? The Irish leader laughed gently.

"He's been an ass, hasn't he Aoife?" He laughed harder at her stunned silence.

"You don't have to answer, I recognise the signs. So he's as fallible as the rest of us. Occasionally anyway."

She laughed gently.

"How did you guess?" He laughed harder.

"Oh Aoife, I'm married."

He finished up the call, with a happy chuckle, and Aoife sat down on the couch in a heap. She was still deeply hurt and angry with Mycroft Holmes, but, well, she could see that he was fighting for her, fighting to get her back and she felt the first kernels of hope flickering in her heart. She finished her sandwiches, not tasting anything but mindful of Sherlock's advice. Placing his letter on her bed, she showered, she brushed her teeth and dried her hair and put on her emerald coloured, silk nightdress, and if it was the one that Mycroft loved the most on her, she was denying that to herself. She watched the 'News at Ten' on BBC1, and then pretended to watch a movie in bed and lasted two whole hours before she succumbed and opened his letter.

My Darling Aoife,

I am so very sorry for today. I am mortified about the way I spoke to you, the way I treated you and I beg your forgiveness. You, who have been nothing but true and honest in your every word to me, every loving touch, did not deserve what I did this morning. I am devastated by my behaviour my love, and find any attempt at explanation insufficient, unworthy of you; as unworthy of you as I am myself. I know that, I've always known that, and that was at the root of my insecurity. But I am a selfish man Aoife, and I will not give you up. Not without fighting for you, arguing my case to you, all the while well aware that I did not afford you the same courtesy this morning, when it mattered most. 

You are, quite simply the best thing to ever happen to me, and on a day that should have been one of our happiest, the day you discover that you are to be a mother, that I am to be a father, I insulted you, humiliated you and removed you from our home. I will have to live with that for the rest of my life. If you will only let me, I will spend that time making it up to you; to the both of you. I am asking you for what I well aware I did not have the basic decency to even consider this morning, my beautiful Aoife, even if you had done what I'd accused you of. I am asking you for a second chance. If you grant it to me, know that I will never doubt you, or let you down, again. I give you my word. 

I love you Aoife, desperately. I love you both. Please forgive me.

Your Mycroft.

She read it twice, silent tears pouring down her face; then folded it and placed it on the bed-side-locker. Then, she went into the bathroom and washed her face. She grimaced at the image reflecting in the mirror and applied a light coating of make up to hide the damage. She pulled on the matching silk dressing gown and tightened the belt around her waist. It was simple really, she realised. After reading that, it was so simple.

She opened the door of her suite and the agent jumped off his chair.

"Take me to him." She said.


	5. The Irish Connection - London Calling - Chapter 5

Chapter 5  
Mycroft Holmes sat in the evening chair in his hotel suite nursing a glass of whiskey that he was yet to sip from. The room was silent and almost dark, the small desk-lamp the only concession to light. He wanted to think, to ignore the waves of anxiety and panic that threatened to overwhelm him. But he couldn’t seem to manage it. He was too worried about Aoife, how she was, how the baby was, and would give anything to just see her and reassure himself as to her wellbeing, even though Sherlock had called him a few hours ago from Baker Street and confirmed that he’d passed on his letter to her and that she was ‘fine’. 

Shame engulfed him, the sheer force of it blindsiding him. If she was ‘fine’, it was a bloody miracle and reflective of her resilience. He tried to predict her reaction to what he’d written but he couldn’t, because a myriad of emotions was blocking his normal thought process. Fear, hope, shame, love, and loss but ultimately he kept returning to guilt and shame at the memory of the stricken, distraught look on her face after he’d annihilated her this morning. 

He looked again at his phone, and at the tabloid photograph of Aoife, leaning into Michael Reilly’s shoulder, trying to hide her face. Sherlock was doing his best to block the photographer, but there had been two of them and so they’d managed to catch her expression, and it was one would haunt him for the rest of his days. He’d put that pain on her beautiful face, and couldn’t breathe with knowledge of that. Two good men protecting her like knights, but his guts were churning because the man who should have protected her the most had caused this. How could she forgive him when he couldn’t forgive himself? 

There was a knock on his door but he ignored it; he didn’t want to deal with anybody or anything; not now, but then there was another knock, and suddenly his pulse leapt because he knew it was her. Heart in his mouth, he put the glass down hurriedly and rushed to open it. Aoife stood there, flanked by two of his agents, and he forgot to breath. He drank her in; tall and beautiful, her proud green eyes locking with his, her mane of glossy copper hair that was his perpetual undoing, falling around her shoulders, but it was her inscrutable expression as they stared at each other in the doorway that gripped him the most, and for the first time in his life, he couldn’t think of a word to say. Long seconds passed in silence until finally she raised an enquiring eyebrow.

“Well, are you going to let me in this time?” 

Still livid then, it seems. He jumped back then and gestured into the room. 

“Yes, sorry, of course I am, yes.” She followed him into the room and closed the door firmly behind her. The room darkened again and he turned on the main light because he wanted to see her properly. Aoife stood tall, one hand on a slim hip, and returned his appraisal, taking in his dishevelled look, his ‘way past five o’clock shadow’ and she secretly softened at the desperate way he was looking at her. He wasn’t going to have it easy though, she decided. 

“Here’s how this is going to play out, Mycroft Holmes. You are going to sit there,” she pointed to the chair he’d just vacated, “and I’m going to talk. I am going to question you. All that is required from you is ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer. Are you clear?” 

Mycroft’s jaw dropped and he stared at her in shock. God, she was magnificent. Sit? He’d fucking crawl over hot coals if she’d take him back. So he sat. She’d done this before, he remembered, months ago, in Ireland, after he’d misunderstood her intentions. Reduced him to ‘yes or no’ answers, although she’d been straddling his lap that time, but he knew better to expect miracles, unless you counted this one, this minute. She stood six feet away from him, analysing him with every glacial sweep of her gaze, wearing that bloody green silk negligee. His palms itched to touch her so he put them firmly on the arms of the chair. Yes, she was going to torture him. Fine. He shook his head to try to clear it. She was looking impatiently at him now. 

“I said, are you clear?” 

So she had. Aoife was in full stroppy and demanding mode. Did his cock just twitch there? NOT GOOD, focus.

“Yes, Aoife.” 

“Do you know me?” Cool and determined, but he caught the sliver of hurt, and winced.

“Yes.” Eyes like green lasers, shattering him. 

“Did you mean every word of that letter?” Softly, he answered her.

“Yes.”

“Have I ever, personally, given you cause to doubt my honesty?” He shook his head quickly.

“No.” 

She continued her interrogation relentlessly. 

“Did you promise me in Ireland that if ever a conflict of interest issue arose, that you’d tell me?” He squirmed inwardly.

“Yes.”

“Did you break that promise?” He looked down at his lap and said quietly, 

“Yes.” She bit her lip, nervous now. 

“Did I break that same promise?”

“NO!” 

She pursed her lips determinedly. 

“Mycroft, think. Did I tell you immediately that I’d seen your tender figure and recused myself; yes or no?”

“No,” he admitted. She nodded in agreement. 

“No I didn’t. We fell at the first hurdle. That is a major cause of this debacle today, but not the only one.” 

She shifted slightly and then stepped closer to his chair, closer to him, and he sucked in an eager breath and gripped the arms of the chair a little tighter. Spotting a footstool, she grabbed it and, placing it in front of his feet, she sat on it, deliberately placing herself below him, and taking his two hands in hers, she brought them to his lap and kept her hands covering his. He leaned forward, desperate to be closer to her. She squeezed his hands gently and looking up at him, she asked him gently,

“Do you know how many orgasms you’ve given me?” Mycroft swallowed and sucked in a deep breath. 

“Yes.”

Oh she was a smart one, this woman of his, he thought, for he was starting to hope, to believe that she was really that; his woman, and he could feel his heart beat faster. Her lips twitched in amusement, although she struggled to hide it. Not letting him off the hook yet then. That was fine, he’d dangle on her hook for as long as she wanted, he was so fucking relieved she was touching him. 

“I thought you might. Is it over 200 in a few months?” He nodded yes, but kept his face poker straight; he was not going to get very far here by looking smug. 

“Do you believe I faked any one of them?” He sighed deeply. 

“No.” 

She shook her head in exasperation. 

“And yet you let yourself doubt my physical attraction to you!” 

It wasn’t a question so he shut up, his brain, so sadly absent in the last twenty-four hours, was back with a vengeance now. She chewed her lip for a second or two and tilted her head and threw him a look of complete exasperation, but now she was stroking his knuckles tenderly with her thumbs so he waited her out, closing his eyes to savour what he’d feared he’d never experience again. 

“So obviously, I’ve been giving this issue a lot of thought today,” she continued, and he swallowed a thick lump of shame that had suddenly lodged in his throat, “and really,” she continued, “after I read your letter, I realised that the answer is quite simple, considering, you know, you’re the one who’s supposed to be the genius.” 

She’d lost him again. He looked quizzically at her. She cleared her throat. 

“I just have one more question.” She looked him straight in the eyes and smiling softly at him she said, “Mycroft Bloody Holmes, will you marry me?” 

He stared at her in complete shock. She wanted to marry him? She actually wanted to marry him, after what he’d put her through less than twenty-four hours ago. He felt his eyes sheen over with emotion. He tightened his grip on her hands and grabbed the opportunity she’d handed him. 

“Oh God yes.” 

She smiled at him then, finally, tears glistening in her eyes too and she moved to stand and he tugged her onto his lap and into his arms and held her as tightly as he could. He could feel her trembling slightly in his arms and he knew she was the bravest, smartest women he ever met. He pressed his lips against her cheek, beside her ear, and repeated over and over, “I’m so sorry Aoife, I’m so sorry, I love you so much and I’m so sorry” She was crying now and he groaned and rocked her. “Don’t Aoife, please my darling don’t cry. I’m sorry, so sorry. Please don’t cry.” 

His cheek was drenched and he began to kiss it softly and nuzzle into her neck. “Please don’t cry Aoife, I can’t bear it, that I’ve hurt you so much.”

“I can’t seem to help it. That’s twice today, you bastard.” He just held her and kissed her face and said nothing. 

“I’m still angry with you,” she declared, but she was clutching his shoulders and planting gentle kisses on his cheek. He sighed heavily,

“I know, my love. I don’t blame you.” 

He lowered one hand to cover her stomach, and began to stroke her there and pulled their sonogram photo out of his shirt pocket with the other. “Do you think you’ll have forgiven me by the time our child is born?” 

She covered his hand on her abdomen and smiled at the photo and then at him. 

“I didn’t say I haven’t forgiven you. I have. I’m just angry with you.” 

He couldn’t see the difference himself but he wasn’t going to labour the point. She rested her forehead on his and he stroked her hair and held onto her for long minutes. 

“We’re having a baby, Mycroft,” she said and his heart surged with the reality of that fact and the love he felt for her. Her voice was so soft and tender and he knew her anger was receding, and he determined to keep her in his arms until he was sure it was all gone. 

“That we are, you marvellous woman, and we’re getting married, although not necessarily in that order.” He dared to kiss her plump lips then and she kissed him back. “How do you feel about it Aoife? Are you happy? You’ll be an incredible mother.” She beamed then, actually beamed at him.

“Oh Mycroft, do you think so? A baby of my own. After Oisin died and before I met you, I felt very alone sometimes. You know that, and you could still leave me, but a baby will love me and need me forever.” He should his head vehemently then. 

“No Aoife, despite my behaviour today, I could never, ever leave you. I wouldn’t have lasted a day without you. I didn’t.” He moved her back to look at her, “I promise you Aoife, I will never treat you like that again. I know I undermined your sense of security today but I promise you, I will restore it and you will never doubt me again. I need you Aoife, I need both of you like I need to breath. Do you believe me?” 

She looked in his face as he spoke and realised it was the simple truth. She kissed him again. 

“Yes, I do.” 

He felt the last ebb of her anger disappear and drew her back in to him and just held her close for a long while. She was exhausted; he could tell, but he didn’t want to let her go. He wanted her close to him. 

“Will you sleep here with me, Aoife?” She nodded in his arms and he lifted her and carried her to his bed. She slid under the covers and then stretched and reached for him. She tensed slightly in his arms. “I’m not going back to the house until that bitch is gone.” He laughed drily. 

“Oh believe me, neither am I. Sherlock is planning a greeting party for her in the morning, him and the Chief Inspector. I don’t want to ever see her again. I don’t trust myself with her. I should have listened to your concerns Aoife.”

“Don’t Mycroft. I didn’t take it that seriously either. I just thought she was jealous. I knew she was in love with you and thought she’d realise we were serious and leave of her own accord. I didn’t want to hurt her.” She laughed ruefully. “I bloody do now!” She was stroking his chest gently and then leaned up on her elbow to look at him. “You can’t press charges against her Mycroft.” 

“Aoife, stop trying to protect me. I’ll take the hit, I deserve it.” She giggled then and he smiled in response. 

“Like you did with the Taoiseach this evening?” He grimaced and grinned ruefully. 

“He told you about that, did he?”

“He may have mentioned it.”

“Through his laughter?” She giggled again. “He almost choked himself.” He laughed with her. 

“We’ll invite him to the wedding; might keep him quiet.” He stroked her face. 

“How long will it take you to prepare your house in Wicklow for our wedding?” She bit her bottom lip and smiled again. 

“Well, we have to wait three months from registration, particularly as you’re British and not Irish.” 

He laughed and looked a little guilty. “Aoife Quinn, do you know your future husband at all?” 

She sat up indignantly. “When did you register us?” He raised a cheeky brow at her. 

“Do you remember that night on the on the beach in Wicklow, when I said you could keep my handkerchief, and then you asked me if you could keep me too? I took you literally. I sorted it the very next morning.” 

She dived on him and kissed him for a very long time. 

“I suppose there’s no point in asking you how you got your hands on my birth cert?” 

He actually snorted at that one. She glared at him playfully and then snuggled into him again, and lay her head on his chest. 

“I intend to have a lot of sex with you in the morning, it’s only fair to warn you, Mr Holmes, but I’m going asleep now. I’m very tired.” He held her tightly in his arms and said quietly and humbly,

“Thank you for forgiving me, Aoife.” 

“That’s ok. Goodnight, my darling idiot.” He spluttered a laugh and held her until she was deeply asleep; then he picked up his phone and sent a brief text. 

‘I have her back. Thank you Sherlock. Start writing another best man’s speech.’

A few miles away in Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes shifted his sleepy pathologist gently off his chest to pick up his phone and read his brother’s message and then he grinned like a Cheshire cat.

‘There’s hope for you yet, brother mine,’ he responded, and then nudged Molly awake. 

“Molly, Molly, wake up. Guess what?”


	6. The Irish Connection - London Calling - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Helen Cooper let herself into Mycroft Holmes salubrious residence in Mayfair at exactly 8:00am, just as she had done every weekday morning without fail for the last fifteen years. The house was very quiet. Mycroft had usually left for the office by now, and either that Irish strumpet was still in bed or she'd gone out. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. She'd have to check the bedroom and change the bedding again. She decided to let one of the Polish girls perform that task; she wanted nothing to do with it.

She smirked, consoling herself that it wouldn't be for much longer, or so that man kept assuring her anyway. She went into the kitchen to start her day there, as she always did. She turned on the light and nearly jumped out of her skin. Sherlock Holmes was sitting at the head of the kitchen table, his funny coloured eyes locked on her, examining her like she was something under one of his microscopes.

"Oh, Mr Holmes, you startled me!"

He continued to fix her with that icy gaze and remained silent. As she looked back at him in confusion she saw a flickering expression of disdain across his face. She froze, and fear climbed into her chest and up her neck so she could almost taste it in her mouth. He knew. He sighed deeply, like this was tedious; looked at her like she was odious, and she realised how utterly stupid she'd been.

"Sit down, Helen."

"Mr. Holmes?"

"I said, sit down."

She sat down heavily in the chair he indicated, at the other end of the kitchen table.

"What amazes me the most," he said then, as if she'd already confessed, "is that you thought for one second that you'd actually get away with it."

He looked at her again, like she was some bug that he had hoped would be interesting for a second but had decided that in fact, she wasn't at all. "You've known my brother for fifteen years," he continued, "and so you know me too. Between us we have the two keenest brains in the country; did you honestly think we wouldn't find out?" He was genuinely curious about that.

"I don't know what you're talking about; 'get away' with what, exactly?"

He sighed deeply again and looked pointedly at his watch.

"Espionage, Helen, industrial and international espionage. Detective Inspector L'Estrange will be here in exactly twenty minutes. What I tell him then entirely depends on what you tell me now. You, for contemptable reasons, have been leaking highly confidential information to a foreign jurisdiction. By doing so you have caused the British Government to lose out on at least one lucrative contract that would have provided over a thousand highly skilled jobs here, but they're going to stay in Ireland now; because of you. What else have you leaked, Helen, do tell, and by the way, you now have eighteen minutes."

At exactly the same time a few miles away, Aoife Quinn woke up in the Connacht Hotel to the pensive gaze of Mycroft Holmes. He was leaning over her slightly, scrutinising her face, reading keenly her first moments of consciousness as she recollected the tumultuous events of yesterday. He saw the flicker of sadness in her eyes and then it was gone but his heart clenched in pain. It was too much to expect that she wouldn't still be hurt. She smiled at him though and reached up to stroke his face.

"You just need to give me a little time, Mycroft. It's ok, really it is." She tugged him down for a deep kiss. "Good morning, fiancé."

He pulled her into his arms.

"I'll wait as long as it takes, Aoife, and I'll do whatever it takes."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Keep saying things like that and it won't take long at all."

"I'm coming to Dublin with you."

It was a statement of fact and not a question, but he thought he'd put it out there now, in case it was an issue.

Aoife realised she hadn't known she'd wanted him to go until he'd said it and gave him a huge and genuine grin.

"I'm glad. I want you with me when we get whomever is doing this. I've called the board members home and earmarked the board meeting for Friday. I've just said in a group email that there are potential investors in a major deal in town and that they've requested individual meetings with the board members. It's unusual, but not unheard of, and we don't want to tip them off. We need to give Sherlock and Michael time to interview them individually."

"They're the 'potential investors."

She chuckled a little ruefully.

"They are. The ruse won't last a second once those two enter the room. They're both well known, especially Sherlock, but that's ok. The others will understand once I explain afterwards."

He nodded solemnly. "I'll observe. I'll know the guilty party when I see them. I want to be there."

"I don't know if I want to be there or not. I.., this is so personal Mycroft. I don't want them to see me upset. I may not be. I may just be angry. I'm sorry, I don't know how to explain it any better than that. I want you by my side and visible though, to show them that their plan didn't work." She smiled at him tenderly. "Anyway, I need you by my side for a little while; if that's ok?"

His guts clenched.

"You humble me Aoife."

She looked into his eyes for a long moment and then she grinned and muttered,

"Well, that's probably no harm," and he spluttered with laughter.

"Indeed."

He ran a tentative, explorative hand slowly down her side and stroked her hip, leaning in to kiss her neck. He watched desire flare in her eyes and mentally thanked a God he didn't believe in for that, but there was still an underlying undercurrent of anger and hurt, he knew. She sat up sharply, wordlessly, and tugged her nightdress over her head. She pushed him onto his back, none to gently, and straddled his hips. He was hard as a rock in seconds. He reached to grip her waist, but she grasped his hands and pressed them back past his hips and onto the mattress.

"No!" she said firmly, "leave them there and no touching."

This was new, and he wasn't entirely comfortable with it, but Aoife needed to regain control, he could see that, and he'd give her anything to help her get past the harm he'd done to her; done to both of them only yesterday, so he agreed with a nod of his head. She kissed and licked down his bare chest to his waist and he clenched his fists to keep them from touching her. Her long hair was brushing his torso too, and he wanted to grip it and run his hands through it so badly that he groaned out loud, but he kept his fists pressed deeply into the mattress.

Aoife slid down his body and gripping his boxer shorts, she pulled them roughly down his long legs and tossed them behind her. She sank back down then, straddling his calves in a single smooth motion and watching him intently, she smiled, almost carnally, and took him deeply into her mouth.

Aoife heard him moan, and murmur her name with a sigh and it thrilled her. She felt powerful, omnipotent, and all the while he was true to his word and kept his hands pressed hard by his sides and didn't touch her. Her heart was stuttering in her chest and she could see the wildness in his eyes and the passion across his face, and she plundered him with her mouth and tongue, unable to stop, unable to get enough of him. His hips jerked and moved and she pressed them down and kept going, and when she was ready, she reared up and slid back up his body. She settled herself astride him, and with one sharp thrust she took him fully inside her.

He watched her, her eyes wild and glinting back at him and he twisted his hips and thrust deep inside her, but still he didn't touch her with his hands. For long minutes she met him thrust for thrust. She leaned forward and moved against his chest with her perfect breasts caressing him, and within minutes he emptied himself inside her and she took all of him, and the perfection of it, of him and of their bodies fused together, overwhelmed her, and she came with him, and came apart; her body exploding into pieces. She slumped over him, their bodies slick and sated, and her heart, finally, was sated too.

He knew in that moment, that their issue was at rest and that she was his; and he believed it with all of his being; and of course she was right, it really was incredibly simple. Still he lay with her draped over him, still sheathed in her, hands clenched obediently to his sides as they both caught their breath, and then he implored her,

"Please Aoife, please, let me hold you now?"

She nodded her head into his shoulder, her arms tight around his neck and he wrapped his arms around her back and held her body tightly to his chest. She pressed her lips into his neck and whispered raggedly into his ear,

"Now do you get it?"

"Yes Aoife; perfectly," he replied.

Back in Mayfair, in his brother's kitchen, Sherlock Holmes was enjoying himself too, albeit for a very different reason. Helen Cooper had continued to deny his accusations for another three long and tedious minutes and then realising the futility of it, she wasted another two trying to justify her actions.

"I don't care about your 'feelings' Helen, or your opinion of Aoife. It's boring. You'll tell me who, what, where and when, and you'll tell me in the next thirteen minutes, or the good DI will escort you to MI5 and you can tell them instead," he examined his nails and frowned slightly at an errand cuticle, "it's entirely up to you." So, recognising the futility of not complying with his demand, she caved in and told him what she knew. He realised that his brother and Aoife's adversary was slightly smarter than he'd previously given him credit for, because he'd used an English middleman to approach her, knowing her hatred for the Irish would prevent any engagement with him, and also protecting his identification, should his plan fail.

It was "about two months ago, one Saturday, in her local café over her bacon and eggs," she said, that he'd sat down and they got chatting and suddenly, he'd just started talking about Aoife and how she'd screwed his friend in a business deal and wasn't to be trusted; like he was concerned and giving her a friendly warning. Mycroft Holmes was smitten though, he'd advised apologetically, so he'll never believe them. He'd be very angry if she just told him her concerns; he might even get rid of her instead, and then where would she be?

She'd been played like his violin, he thought, groomed like the pet poodle his mother used to have. This guy had played on her racial hatred and her misguided fantasy of a relationship with Mycroft. The rest of it was utterly predictable. He'd given her a burner smartphone. Whenever she discovered anything on Mycroft's desk with even the remotest connection or reference to Ireland, she was to take a photo of it and send it on to him. He'd paid her a 'little sum, for her trouble'. He wondered how much Mycroft was paying her if she considered £100,000 a trifle, but no matter. He held out his hand and she fished the phone out of her handbag and gave it to him.

Mycroft couldn't press charges, he realised, as he briefed the ever punctual L'Estrade, both dispassionately watching the tearful Helen Cooper so consumed with self-pity still sitting at his brothers table. It wasn't worth it. The charges probably wouldn't stick and the fall-out from them would be too great. It would be embarrassing for the British Government and for Mycroft. Knowing the Irish now as he did, and of the high regard they held for Aoife Quinn, and also for their neighbours, in this new era of real friendship between the two nations; they wouldn't want that either. So he took his friend aside and outlined a plan to draw out their enemy.

Then, "Helen," he said, "you are going to send another email."

He actually winked at her as he took out his phone and pressed one of his few pre-programmed numbers.

"Hello brother mine. Unhand my future sister-in-law and both of you meet me at River House. The game is on!"


	7. The Irish Connection - London Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay with this folks. Things a bit hectic. I'll try update again after the weekend. Much love and gratitude for all your kudo's and kind words.

Chapter 7  
Aoife, sanguinely lying in Mycroft’s arms, heard what Sherlock had said to him over the phone and rolling her eyes, she laughed at his exuberance. 

“Well, as long as you’re entertained, Sherlock Holmes, that’s all that matters!” she protested loudly, so he was sure to hear her. 

“Quite right,” he retorted, and now it was Mycroft who was eye-rolling. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m having a very public breakfast in the restaurant here with my fiancée before we go anywhere, brother mine,” he asserted.

She smiled at him, knowing he was determined to portray a united front. Mycroft passed the phone to her before his brother could protest; gesturing that he was going to shower. She pressed it to her ear and asked Sherlock what he’d found out from Helen; so he filled her in on what he’d learned. 

“She really doesn’t like you,” he teased. 

“Oh believe me, the feeling is mutual.” 

She paused for a second. Helen had caused her a lot of pain and she didn’t relish seeing her again. 

“Actually, Sherlock, I really don’t want to see her, and anyway, I think it’s better if I don’t. She’s co-operating, to a degree, now. She might regress if she sees me again.”

Sherlock concurred that she had a point. 

“Sherlock, do you really need her anymore at all? You have her phone. If she only sent text messages before, then maybe we don’t? Why don’t you let Greg deal with her now?” 

Sherlock winced internally. It was so unlike Aoife to back away from a fight. Her confidence seemed to have taken a knock and he wanted to help her but she was wrong about this so he replied as gently as he could. 

“Sorry Aoife, but he’s nearing his end-game. He will likely want the reassurance of checking in with her, so we’ll need her close-by and fully co-operating. I want to show her photos of all your male board members too. Maybe he was stupid enough to approach her himself.” 

Aoife had to concede that he made sense and let it drop. 

“L’estrade is taking her to Scotland Yard first, to ‘formally charge her’ or something equally tedious,” Sherlock continued. “Then he’ll take her on to MI5; so you won’t see her immediately, if that’s any consolation.” 

While he was speaking to her he walked through the bottom floor of his brother’s house, looking for anything out of place or unusual as a precaution before he left. He kept chatting to Aoife as he glanced out the front window of Mycroft’s living room. The silver haired Detective Inspector was leading Helen Cooper out of the front door and down the long footpath to the road. The squad car was waiting at the gate and two of Mycroft’s agents were talking to one of the police officers. The road was eerily quiet. Sherlock frowned. Something was off. 

“Aoife, stay on the line, I just want to check something.” 

There it was again. A glint from the upstairs bedroom of one of the houses across the road. He raced to the front door and roared a warning, “Greg, get down!” and the DI began to drop, but it was too late for Helen. Sherlock grimaced as he watched her head shatter from a high velocity bullet fired from the upstairs window of the house. The two agents dragged the unarmed police officer down to the ground behind the squad car, guns drawn. Sherlock ran into Mycroft’s study directly to the safe on the wall obscured by the Queen’s portrait, yelling down the phone to Aoife for the code. Mycroft’s revolver was inside. 

Mycroft had just turned off the water in the shower when she burst into the bathroom and said urgently, “there’s someone shooting at the house. Sherlock needs the code to the safe,” and thrust the phone into his hands. He grasped it from her and barked the code to his brother, and then warned him to be careful as Sherlock hung up. He called for backup and an ambulance and then dragged a towel across his body rapidly as he and Aoife rushed to get dressed. Sherlock, loaded revolver in hand, shouted at the agents to cover him as he ran to his DI friend, who was crouched beside the dead body of Helen Cooper, trying to get a fix on the origin of the bullet. 

He shouted again so the agents could hear, “Sniper, centre house, top floor, second window from the left.” 

He scanned the window, but the glint was gone. Sherlock gestured the DI to follow him and they ran towards the house. He knew the slight delay was probably the window of opportunity needed for the sniper to escape but it was worth a try. One of the agents shot out the lock of the front door of the house, then kicked it in, and they rushed through it. They split into teams of two and the agents ran towards the back of the house while Sherlock sprinted up the stairs with Greg in hot pursuit. 

The door of the front bedroom was wide open and the room was empty. The only indication of anything untoward was a long-legged tripod abandoned in haste at the window. They raced down the stairs again and caught up with the agents, who were searching the rear garden. The senior agent shook his head in frustration. The sniper was gone. Sherlock pulled out his phone again and called Molly. To his immense relief, she had not yet left for work. He asked her to stay in Baker Street until he could do a risk assessment with Mycroft, and silently thanked Aoife for the new bullet proof glass she’d installed during the refurbishment of 221B. 

“I’ll come to get you as soon as I can, ok Molly?” 

She reassured him she knew the protocol now; not to answer the door unless he or Mycroft said it was ok, and she asked him to be careful. 

“Shall I fetch Mrs Hudson up too?”

“Yes Molly, and don’t let her open the door to anybody.” 

His brother was his next call. “I’m coming there to you. Don’t leave the room and stay away from the windows. Are you armed?” His brother’s patient timbre came back down the phone to him.   
“Thank you Sherlock. I do know what to do. Yes, we’re armed. I’ve called for backup; for there and for here. The emergency services are on their way to you too. Now, tell me exactly what happened.” 

He filled him in exactly. 

“Obviously, Mycroft, it means he was either tidying up loose ends, or Helen could identify him. Ask your people to look for a background in amateur dramatics in the board member’s profiles. He may still be Irish but able to fool Helen with an affected English accent; it’s still possible he approached her himself, in light of this killing.” 

Mycroft sighed and reaching a hand out to Aoife, he pulled her against him.

“Agreed Sherlock, and I shall, but you’re not stating the other obvious concern.” 

“I didn’t think I needed to Mycroft. He’s coming after Aoife, and not just her business.” 

“Yes. He is. But tell me this Sherlock, what ordinary Irish business man has such rapid access to a world class sniper? This assault on Aoife’s business may just be a smoke screen. This doesn’t make sense; at least, not yet.” 

Sherlock contemplated the facts for a minute and tutted in irritation. They’d been steered in the wrong direction. 

“Yes, I’m afraid it does Mycroft. Aoife is not the only target. You’re one too, and probably the primary one. Just like me with Molly, she’s your Achilles heel, because you love her. Setting you both up with this conflict was the perfect distraction.” 

Mycroft instantly knew he was right. 

“Keep Helen’s phone with you. We’ll wait here at the hotel for you. Aoife’s talking to Michael right now. She’ll fill him in. The sooner we get to Ireland, the better. I think that is still the place to start,” He paused and then added, “you’d better take Molly with us too. Either that or she stays in Baker Street for the duration.” 

Sherlock sighed in frustration. 

“We’re only back from Ireland and she’s just beginning to settle into Baker Street. Look, let’s not decide that yet. Molly and Mrs Hudson are secure for now. I’ll be with you both   
shortly.” 

He rang off and climbed back up the stairs of the neighbour’s house to review the scene again. 

As soon as his brother had disconnected, Mycroft went into lockdown mode. He issued orders rapidly via his mobile phone and seconds later a flood of agents mobilised and rushed the short distance to the Connacht Hotel. Aoife lifted her phone again too to contact the Dublin Central Intelligence Unit buried in Dublin Castle, but he gestured her ‘no,’ so she frowned but held off making the call. Placing his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone he appealed apologetically to her,

“Please don’t alert Dublin yet Aoife. It may not be necessary, and at the moment I’m considering this incident to be at ‘Top Secret’ status.” 

Aoife frowned at him as he continued placatingly, 

“Ok, look, can you give me three hours at this first? We’ll liaise with Sherlock and then we’ll all go to River house to debrief. There’s something we’re missing here, I’m sure of it. Yes, Ireland is a factor and we are going to Dublin, and yes, Dublin should be informed, but I believe the origin of this conspiracy may be here in London. He frowned and shook his head in frustration as he continued, “I’m just not sure yet.”

Aoife looked at him in concern. He was usually cooler than this in a crisis. She walked across the room to him and taking his phone out of his hand, she touched his face gently. 

“Dublin will already know that there was a shooting at your home, Mycroft. They also know that I live there. I am going to have to brief them. I am a senior Irish Government representative consulting on international security with our nearest neighbour. I am going to have to tell them something and I’d prefer to be truthful.” 

Mycroft pursed his lips, conflicted. He did not want this impasse with her so soon after their reconciliation but then so much of their work could cause them to clash. So he looked for wriggle room. 

“How about you tell them my housekeeper was shot dead this morning as she left the house, and that we are searching for her killer at the moment, but that we don’t know who is responsible yet? Isn’t that pretty much the truth?” he appealed. “Anyway, Aoife, the fact is we don’t know who we can trust in Dublin yet either.” 

He searched her face as she considered his request. Her lips twitched in amusement and she plonked a soft kiss on his lips and handed him back his phone. 

“There’s the master negotiator back in the room,” she laughed. “That’s fine for now, but I’m contacting my private security team right now to send armed guards to my parents, and I’m continuing to fill Michael in fully. Do we have a deal?”

He grabbed her and swept her up off the floor in a tight hug, catching her by surprise and making her laugh loudly. 

“We have a deal, Ms Quinn,” he smiled broadly at her, “and thank you.”

“See?” she teased, “It’s easy, this communication thing, isn’t it?” and she kissed him hard on the lips. When she was out of breath he lifted his head and smirked boldly at her, nodding his head in acquiesce.

“It has its merits.”

Aoife snorted and he laughed with her and drew her back into his arms, nuzzling her neck. 

“How are you and ‘Junior Holmes’ doing?” he murmured into her ear. 

She wrapped her arms around him and sighed softly. “We’re fine now.” 

He drew back to look in her eyes.

“I love you, my darling girl. I love you both. Thank you for forgiving me. I will never hurt you again.” 

“I know you do and I know you won’t,” she said quietly, “let’s not revisit it anymore.” 

She peered at him enigmatically from under her lashes, running a slow finger down his chest. Then raising one brow she asked him in her best ‘bossy’ tone; 

“where is it?” 

Mycroft exhaled in relief and reaching into is breast pocket, he pulled out her Tiffany key pendant. He placed it over her head, lifting her hair to settle the chain around her neck; both watching as the diamond key settled just above her breasts. Then he kissed her forehead tenderly. 

“We’ll choose your engagement ring in Dublin. I know you’d like that.” 

She smiled in delighted surprise and kissed him for a very long time before she said, 

“That’s because you’re a very smart man.” 

There was a loud knock on the door and Sherlock voiced bellowed around the corridor. 

“I hope you two are decent. Open the door brother dear. The cavalry has arrived!”


	8. The Irish Connection - London Calling - Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things getting a little steamy again...

Chapter 8  
To Sherlock's complete exasperation, his brother insisted on having a very public breakfast in the restaurant of the Connacht Hotel. He wanted to go to River House immediately, and Mycroft adopted his most supercilious tone, the one that grated the most, to explain his rational; speaking to him as if to a small child.

"Sherlock, be reasonable, it is going to take a little while for my team to collate all of the intelligence on Aoife's board of directors. Meanwhile, Aoife and I would like to send a strong message to our conspirers that they have failed spectacularly in their attempt to split us up. We shall, therefore, enjoy a very leisurely, and public, breakfast. It just so happens that a certain gossip columnist may have been informed of our breakfast intentions and is downstairs with a photographer. You are quite welcome to join us, of course."

Sherlock sighed heavily and conceded to the inevitable. They descended in the lift together and a camera flashed as they crossed the hotel lobby; Aoife looking spectacular in a smart casual fitted skirt and jacket and Louboutin high heels, her fingers threaded casually through his brothers and laughing happily with the two of them. Mycroft, in a rare public display of affection, wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her tight into his hip as they crossed the restaurant floor to their table. Aoife ran her hand up his back before resting it on his shoulder.

Sherlock groaned quietly. "Well, I think they've got the message now, Casanova," he grumbled.

Aoife giggled, leaned across and kissed him on the cheek.

"Says the man who cannot keep his hands off Molly Hooper!"

"Not while I'm on a case!" He retorted indignantly.

She snorted in derision.

"Excuse me Sherlock Holmes, but I beg to differ. I have seen her straddling your hips 'on a case' so do not give me that!"

Sherlock bit back a smirk, but squeezed her hand, secretly delighting in her sassiness. Aoife Quinn was back in force. 

"Oh just order me a coffee. I'm going to make some calls. What time are we leaving for Ireland Aoife dearest, and are you flying? I think you should. It's very convenient."

Mycroft smothered a laugh, but Aoife showed no such restraint and grinned broadly at him. 

"Tell Michael to expect us by late-afternoon and that we'll meet him in Oisin House. We can start the interviews this evening."

He nodded at her and then made eye contact with his brother; neither speaking a word, until after a minute Sherlock nodded his head and merely said, "fine, I agree. I'll tell Molly we'll pick her up on route."

He turned and swept out of the restaurant pressing his phone to his ear. He’d wanted her with him in any case, he admitted to himself, and contemplating her straddling his hips had no bearing on the fact that he’d already decided she had to come back to Ireland with them. Letting Mycroft assume an influence in that decision was no harm though. Aoife raised a brow to her finance and her lips twitched. "You two!" was all she said. He smiled at her, and then watched his brother’s perpetually graceful figure as he swept through the restaurant towards the exit. 

"Sherlock Holmes; Dark Knight and Dragon Slayer," he murmured quietly. She reached across and kissed him gently on the lips.

"Mycroft Holmes, King Arthur," she stated, then continued with a small laugh, "with a smidgen of Merlin thrown in." 

He threw back his head and laughed. As he watched his fiancée tucking into her breakfast, he contemplated their present situation. He briefly wondered if he should go to Ireland at all, or send her away and stay here in London to flush out his enemy; but he dismissed that. The regrettable truth was that they were both safer in Ireland because the security there was loyal, especially Aoife’s private team, and the Irish security forces certainly had no intention of killing him. He was less sure about London, because therein lay his enemy. 

Across the Irish Sea, in the salubrious suburb of Killiney in Dublin South, Mathew Doyle sat into the driving seat of his new Lexus, grinning to himself as he recalled the images on his twitter account of a clearly distressed Aoife Quinn with her Rottweiler detectives in tow, crossing the lobby of her hotel in London. 

‘Stupid bitch is finally getting what she deserves’, he thought gleefully. 

He was sick of permanently having to take a back seat to her, and sick of her opposition to floating Oisin Holdings on the stock market. He had been advocating for them to do so for the past two years and meanwhile, his gambling debts were mounting. The car was leased through the company but his house was re-mortgaged and the payments were killing him. His other, less declarable lifestyle expenses were almost crippling him too. He bit back the flare of anger. The 5% shareholding he held in the company would multiply in value by many millions of euros if that bitch would just comply, but he'd had a hard time convincing the other shareholders too, because of her staunch opposition to floating the company. Aoife Quinn owned 80% of the total share and there was no convincing her; so, he'd set out to discredit her instead, and thus weaken her position with the other board members. Doubt was insidious. It wasn't as if she didn't deserve it, swanning around London with her connected boyfriend and his smartarse brother, and everyone from the Taoiseach to Whitehall eating out of her hands. Not for much longer, he smirked. Reputations are made and reputations are destroyed. It was a case of sitting back and watching the destruction of hers now.

If he had felt a slither of unease when the Englishman had first approached him with the idea of leaking sensitive information to discredit Mycroft Holmes, and by default, Aoife, he had dismissed those feelings pretty fast. The rewards for doing so were too bountiful to turn down; his wife was high maintenance and the kids private school fees were killing him too. Throw a demanding mistress and an accelerating cocaine habit into the pot and costs had recently begun to spiral. The opportune stranger had pointed out the financial benefits expertly and seemed to know a lot about him. He'd offered him an additional financial sweetener too, which had certainly helped to persuade him. The way he saw it, Doyle justified to himself, he was only boosting the Irish economy, if he was helping to swing business to Ireland and out of Britain. 'Win-win' he muttered to himself. 

As he drew to a standstill in heavy commuter traffic snaking its way into Dublin city, he switched on the radio to catch the news.

‘Word is just reaching us of a fatal shooting at the London home of Aoife Quinn, CEO of Oisin Holdings, and her partner, Mr Mycroft Holmes, Head of MI5, this morning. It has been confirmed that the couple were not at home at the time of the incident. Early reports indicate that the victim was a member of their household staff. Police are at the scene and it is further reported that Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective and brother of Mycroft Holmes, was at the house at the time of the shooting. He is reported to be unharmed.   
Ms Quinn’s security detail, Detective Garda Michael Reilly, is believed to have returned to Dublin last night and is unavailable for comment. RTE have been referred to the Garda Press Office, who shall issue a statement shortly. We shall return to this story throughout the day and await a statement from Aoife Quinn.” 

Mathew Doyle swallowed the nausea and anxiety churning in his stomach and up to his throat. He could feel panic rising and drew in long deep breaths. He pulled off the motorway into a side road and parked his car. His hands were shaking. He realised he’d been a complete idiot and he’d got into something way over his head. His mind raced and he considered his options. Grasping at straws, he wondered briefly if this was just a co-incidence; that it wasn’t the informant in the house that was killed, but he dismissed that as the fantasy it was. He frantically wondered if Mycroft Holmes had played a part in the house-keepers death, but rapidly dismissed that too. The only real conclusion to be drawn was that the instigator of this grand plan was ‘cleaning house’ and he figured he was next. He was a pragmatic man, and at this moment, a terrified one; so he took out his phone, called his solicitor and briefed her. Then he drove the kilometre to Donnybrook Garda Station, parked his car and walked up to the Garda on reception duty. 

“My name is Mathew Doyle. I am a board member of Oisin Holdings. I need to speak to Detective Michael Reilly immediately. I have reason to believe my life is in danger.” 

Then he turned away from the surprised Garda and sat down to await his solicitor. The Garda, eyebrows raised, lifted the phone and called his Inspector. Twenty minutes later, in Mycroft’s busy office in River House, Aoife received a call from the Garda Commissioner. She locked eyes with Mycroft while the Commissioner told her what had just occurred in Donnybrook station. He raised an enquiring brow at her, but she didn’t want to let him know in front of his staff. Then Michael called, and she grinned ruefully. That hadn’t taken long. 

“Come home now Aoife,” he said firmly, and bring Sherlock,” he paused for a long moment, “and whatever you do, bring Mycroft too. He needs to get out of London.” She glanced over at her man, her eyes narrowing in concern. 

“We’re on our way,” she responded quietly. Don’t interrogate that treacherous bastard until Sherlock gets there. He might object to a second interrogation, especially from an English ‘private detective’. 

“Grand, Aoife. We have to thread carefully though. I’m not all that sure that he’s broken any laws here, to be honest.” 

Aoife sighed in exasperation. She knew he was right. Doyle’s ass was grass as far as his position on the board was concerned, but criminal charges were another matter. She wasn’t too worried about her business at this point though, she was far more concerned about Mycroft. She clenched her jaw and sneaked another glance at him as he spoke quietly to several members of his senior staff, with Sherlock quietly listening in. She caught his eye beckoned him over. She filled him in quietly on events in Dublin. Sherlock’s eyes glinted tellingly. He glanced back across the room to his brother. Mycroft looked back over at him and shook his head slightly and then returned to his conversation. 

“Mycroft is going to need another couple of hours here Aoife. Tell Michael to keep Doyle there. We’ll go directly to Donnybrook Station.” 

“It will take too long Sherlock. We can’t hold him. He just came in to make a statement.” 

She thought for a long minute. “We can threaten him with being complicit in a murder and get Mycroft to initiate extradition proceedings to the UK to answer charges here.” 

Sherlock chuckled, a little maliciously. 

“Oh, he’s not going anywhere. He’s scared out of his mind of being shot if he leaves that garda station. He’ll stay there all night if necessary,” he laughed, as he turned to leave. 

“Get Mycroft to begin extradition proceedings anyway. They’ll never stick, but it will shake him up a bit. I’m off to collect Molly. I’ll meet you at the plane.” 

Looking again at his brother, he turned back and whispered in Aoife’s ear.

“Are your men still outside?” She nodded solemnly at him. 

“I have two visible outside with the car.”

“Armed?”

“Yes.” 

He smirked at her. 

“How many ‘invisible’?” 

She grinned back at him. 

“Eight. Two of them are going to break off and protect you. Do me a favour and let them. I have four guarding the plane and the airfield and they’ll come on the plane with us. The rest will follow immediately afterwards, and armed Gardaí will escort us from the military airfield in Baldonnel.”

He peered at her. “And the house?” She rolled her eyes.

“Yes, the house too. They’re expecting us. And before you ask, yes, you can have your room back.” 

Sherlock laughed.

“I have to sell this to Molly, considering we’ve just returned from Ireland and moved into 221B. She loves your house though, that’ll help.” 

He paused and then added, “Get Michael to stay at the house with us this time too. I’m not sure what’s going on here, but I…” he trailed off, glancing again at his brother, 

“I know Sherlock. I only want trusted people around us too. I’ll ask Michael.” 

He patted her hand and then left the office. 

A half an hour later, Sherlock quietly let himself into 221B, listening out for activity in the house. He could hear Mrs Hudson gossiping on the phone in her recently refurbished flat downstairs and hoped she wasn't talking to his mother. No good ever came from that. 

It did mean that his darling pathologist was upstairs; alone. He smirked to himself and moved silently up the steps. He was about half way up when he heard the sound of her slightly muffled singing coming from the kitchen. She was still unpacking her own kitchenware and fussing with presses. This unpacking project had been on-going for a week now and he found it most endearing; Molly insisting on consulting with him on his preferences for placement of everything from the pots and pans, to her 'knickknacks', considering he didn't care less one way or the other, but it made her happy, so it was fine with him to continue to offer an opinion when sought. 

When he got to the kitchen doorway he paused and leaned against the doorframe, enjoying the view. Molly was on her hands and knees, half buried in one of the presses, wiping it out with a cloth. Her I-phone was docked into the music system and she was singing along to one of her pop songs she loved. What had really gripped his attention was that she was shaking her arse in time to the beat. The fact that she was wearing tight cropped running pants and a vest top only enhanced the visage. His cock had hardened in seconds.

He shucked off his coat and jacket and threw them over to the couch, then leaning back against the door he growled deeply, "don't move."

Molly froze. "Whaa, Sherlock!" She moved backwards slightly and turned her startled head to look at him. The expression on his face made her gasp and her heart began to race with anticipation.

"I said, don't move," he grated, even more firmly. 

He was across the floor in seconds and turned off the music. Molly's hips swayed slightly and she gasped as she felt his hand behind her begin to stroke her ass. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun and Sherlock smirked smugly to himself because he could see that even the back of her neck was blushing.

"You, Dr Hooper, are a very naughty girl."

"What, what do you mean?" She stammered. He could hear the excited hitch in her voice.

"There are, in fact, two misdemeanours to discuss," he informed her sternly. 

He drummed his fingers on her buttock and Molly shifted and moaned and then jutted her backside into his hand.

"T..two?" she stammered and took a deep, audible breath.

"Yes Doctor; two," he replied, still kneading her ass and then ran his hand between her legs. Molly groaned louder and slumping her shoulders, she dropped her head into her arms.

"Allow me to elaborate," he continued, in that gravelly tone that always made her overheat, as his hands continued its caressing motion between her thighs. 

"Firstly, you were expressly informed by both Aoife and myself that those presses have already been forensically cleaned for use."

Molly considered the re-cleaning of the presses a pretty minor 'misdemeanour' but had no intention of disputing the issue. She was too turned on. 

"Secondly, and far more critically," he continued, as he prised her running pants and thong down over her hips and buttocks, dragging them half way down her thighs, "you are also distracting me when I'm on a case." 

He knelt directly behind her, nipped her buttock gently with his teeth, and then kissed it better, making her groan audibly. 

"Is that right?" Molly gasped out provocatively, "and just how am I doing that?"

Sherlock chuckled deeply and then pulled her backside tight into the erection straining hard and long against his trousers. He held her hips firmly and then smacked her backside sharply as she wriggled against him. 

“You know very well how you’re distracting me; presenting yourself like this when you knew I was on my way home”. 

His hand ran up between her thighs again and she parted her knees to give him better access. He cupped her mound and stroked a long finger between her lips. Her wetness coated his finger and he grinned smugly again. He raised her hips higher and cupping her ass, he lowered his mouth and licked her with long deft strokes until he heard her moaning his name. He stood and lifted her up high and around to face him, and kissed her long and deeply on the mouth. Then he sat her on the kitchen island and casually ripped off her bottoms. Molly’s beautiful face was flushed and her eyes were soaking him up as she leaned back on her hands. Sherlock was always the dominant one but this was bringing it to a whole new level. They smiled lasciviously at each other. His eyes glinted as he gestured to her top. 

“Take it off. All of it,” he ordered her.

She swallowed her excitement and pulled off her top, deliberately leaving her bra on to provoke a response. He raised a brow challengingly and his lips twitched in amusement. He gripped her knees and spread her legs wide, exposing her completely to him and then he slowly scanned her glistening sex. Molly groaned and reached for him but he stepped back and shook his head; denying her. 

“I said all of it, Molly.” She scanned him for weakness and realised immediately that he was not going to relent. 

She scrabbled behind her back and opening her bra, she ripped it from her body and then she reached for him again, gripping his biceps tightly with frantic fingers. 

“Please Sherlock…” 

“Please what Molly, mm? Tell me what you want, and be specific.” 

Sherlock was struggling to hold on to all control as he watched her flushed face, conflict evident at having to use the words when she knew he already knew what exactly she wanted from him. Her body was completely betraying her, a sheen of perspiration covered her forehead, her eyes popping hugely as they begged for him, and her tongue swept involuntarily across her lips. 

“Sherlock..,” she pleaded again. 

“Yes Molly?” he taunted her, determined to push her boundaries. She glared at him for a long second and knew he’d never give in first. 

“Oh Christ! Sherlock Holmes, put that magnificent mouth back on my clitoris right now!!” 

He growled in triumph and gripping her by her thighs, he raised them high over his shoulders and obliged. His tongue dove into her centre and her thighs clenched him hard as he licked and sucked her in hard strokes. When he pressed a strong finger on her clitoris she exploded under his mouth; screaming his name as she came. She had barely recovered when he scrabbled with his trousers, releasing himself; lifting her effortlessly as she climbed him like a tree and lowered herself determinedly onto him. 

He filled her to the hilt and began to pound into her without restraint, lifting and controlling her easily in unrelenting, powerful strokes; soon building her to another blinding orgasm. His lips found hers and he kissed her hungrily as he increased his pace; flowing with her in perfect harmony and thrusting hard and deep. Molly’s breath tore from her throat as she climaxed again and still he maintained iron-willed control until she deliberately clenched down hard around his cock. She felt the tell-tale tremble in his back that indicated that he was close and then, when he came, she knew, once again, that they’d once again found that level of perfection together that she’d never experienced with anybody else. He was her love, her life, and she would be forever bound to him, and him to her. He held her clamped tightly to him and kissed away a stray tear that slid down her face. 

“Yes Molly,” he confirmed tenderly, as if she’d spoken aloud, “I am yours completely.” 

Sherlock carried her into their bedroom and lay her gently on the bed, covering her with one of her flowery throws to keep her warm. He ran the bath the way she liked, using her lotions, and stripped off his clothes. He returned to her and scooped her up in his arms, carrying her to the bath as she nestled her head into his neck. He lowered her in and climbing in behind her, he drew her back to rest against his chest and held her quietly for long minutes. Eventually she turned and rolled her eyes as she reached up to him to run her fingers through his damp curls. She glinted knowingly at him.

“Alright Sherlock Holmes. What time do we leave for Ireland?” 

Sherlock spluttered out a loud laugh and then, dipping his head he kissed her before purring into her ear, 

“Oh don’t you worry Molly; we have at least an hour before we leave.”


End file.
